Rosarina Rizzato, widow of Chicago police officer killed in Cabrini-Green sniper shooting, dies at 85
Rosarina Rizzato found strength she didn't know she had, her children said.
She tapped into it after her husband, Chicago Police Officer Anthony Rizzato, and his partner, Sgt. Jim Severin, were killed in the line of duty in the summer of 1970 in a crime that horrified and shocked the city and nation.
The two were on "walk and talk" duty, building bonds with folks outside Cabrini-Green on the North Side, when sniper fire from a high-rise of the public housing complex struck and killed both men as they walked across a grassy field.
Mrs. Rizzato was 31, and had a 6-year-old son and a 10-year-old daughter.
Her kids were playing in the yard of their Lincoln Square two-flat when police officials and a priest arrived to tell Mrs. Rizzato her husband had been killed.
"She found the strength to be a single parent," said her son, who is also named Anthony.
"She never remarried, never dated, after my dad died. Her view was 'I'm your wife for the rest of my life.' She received a lot of interest, and my mom would be like 'No. No. I'm raising my kids.' And she was 100% dedicated to that," he said.
After her husband's death, Mrs. Rizzato learned how to drive and tried her best to fill in for all the things her husband normally did, her two children said.
"She did everything that, as a child, you don't know about and take for granted," her daughter, Rosa Rizzato, said.
Mrs. Rizatto died June 9 at a Chicago-area assisted living facility from natural causes. She was 85.
Her husband's police star was displayed in her living room not far from a painting she had made of him in uniform.
"In grade school there were father-son events, but I didn't have a father, so my mom would take me," her son said.
A 17-year-old boy and a 23-year-old man were charged in the shooting deaths. The younger man was released from prison in 2021. The other remains incarcerated.
"She wasn't bitter," said her son. "She was philosophical and religious, and she said she felt sorry for them that that was their path in life. As a family we didn't have discriminatory beliefs or biases, and we didn't want to harbor hatred and have that define us. Our father's legacy was helping others, so we needed to move on and do the same."
"Our dad thought he could go into Cabrini-Green and improve lives, make a difference," Rosa Rizzato said. "Our mom always said, 'The best way to honor your father is living a great life.'"
Mrs. Rizzato was born Dec. 23, 1939, in a small town in southern Italy, the daughter of a butcher and a homemaker.
She met her husband, a Chicagoan, while he was visiting relatives in Italy.
He was smitten, their dates were chaperoned, and they married a few months later before moving back to the United States.
The courtship derailed plans Mrs. Rizzato had to serve as a Catholic missionary in Africa.
"They were such a loving couple. We were blessed to grow up with that. Even though it wasn't very long," her daughter said.
Mrs. Rizzato had an open-door policy, with friends and neighbors constantly sitting down for coffee and homemade cookies. Catholic nuns were also regular guests.
"There would be a nun having dinner at the house, and I'd come home with a date. And my mom would be like, 'Can you drive Sister Antoinette home?' So then we'd be in the car: my date, Sister Antoinette and me,'" Anthony Rizzato recalled with a laugh.
The young couple that became longtime renters of the upstairs apartment of her two-flat would occasionally implore Mrs. Rizzato to raise their rent, but she refused.
"You're wonderful tenants. I'm so glad you're here," she'd say.
Mrs. Rizzato moved to Peterson Park in 1978 and later to a condo in Lake Forest.
"She always knew how to show us how she loved us exactly the way we were. She was sort of hands-off, but taught us that common sense is the most important thing you need," her daughter said.
"She'd say 'I wasn't the perfect parent, I didn't do everything right.' She said that all the time. But she tried, and we think she did a pretty good job," her daughter said.
Mrs. Rizzato and her family were always thankful for the support they received from her husband's colleagues and foundations like the 100 Club of Illinois.
"Once the hype and media and elected officials offering condolences go away, you're alone, but the police department never stepped away from us," Anthony Rizzato said.
In addition to her son and daughter, Mrs. Rizzato is survived by three grandchildren and one great-grandchild.
Services have been held.